


wouldn't it be nice

by jooheon



Series: SNK zombie apocalypse AU [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/F, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 22:46:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14199285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jooheon/pseuds/jooheon
Summary: Krista meets the girl of her dreams under circumstances that are less than ideal.// or, yumikuri roughin' it in the zombie apocalypse.





	wouldn't it be nice

**Author's Note:**

> Please be mindful of the warnings on this fic ^^
> 
> Set roughly concurrent to the events in the erejean installment.

“If I ever get infected,” Ymir once told her, naked in bed, still flushed and breathing unevenly, “I want you to be the one to do it. To kill me.”

Krista smiled uncertainly. Was this the post-apocalyptic version of pillowtalk?

“You’d do it for me, right?” Ymir pressed. Her fingers reached out to card through Krista’s unwashed hair. “You wouldn’t let me turn?”

“Yeah,” Krista said. “And… me too, you know? If it were me… I’d want you to do it.”

“Mm,” Ymir said. “Anything for you.”

It wasn’t crazy far off from conversations Krista’d had with college boyfriends; she felt like she knew the script. Right after really good sex, someone would say something stupidly saccharine, and the other person felt like they had to say it back, so they did. And in that warm, happy post-coital stage, they always meant it, even if it didn’t turn out to be true.

So that’s what Krista thought this was, a hyperbolic declaration of sentiment. Not some cutesy _I love you_ shit, but the gritty reboot: _I love you enough to shoot you in the head_.

She didn’t think she’d ever have to actually _do_ it.

 

 

 

The sporting goods store was a decent place to start if you were setting off on your own in this new, zombie-ridden world. Krista’d grown up pretty sheltered, but _that_ much at least she could figure out for herself. She’d snuck in and snagged a utility knife, an industrial strength flashlight and a sturdy pair of boots, and was hunting down a sleeping bag when she realized that she wasn’t the only person to have this bright idea. From the front of the store there came a series of groans and creaks as someone pried open the automated doors — _how_ , Krista had no idea; she’d come in through an unlocked service door around back — and then a few different voices were bouncing around the wide open space.

“Golf clubs, anyone?”

“Forget that, Ymir, we need camping gear.”

“Aw, lighten up, Marcy. C’mon, let’s find some _fun_ shit.”

“I _told_ you to stop calling me that!”

Belatedly, Krista realized that these people were going to see her. She was standing in the camping aisle, and their footsteps were growing rapidly closer, and before she could decide whether or not she should try to run or hide, it was too late.

“Oh,” said the big beefy blond guy at the other end of the aisle.

“Oh?” said the tall dark-haired girl who popped up at his shoulder.

“Um,” squeaked Krista.

As two more strangers appeared and started sizing her up, three things became suddenly and glaringly obvious to her.

  1. They were strong. One look at the bulging biceps of the blond guy and Krista was no longer questioning how they’d pried open the front doors. But the rest of them looked tough too, all muscular and weathered and gunslinging. These were people who could handle themselves.
  2. They weren’t going to hurt her. If anything, they’d do the opposite. The wide-eyed stare they were giving her, it was like they thought she was some kind of little lost kitten.
  3. She was going to fuck the tall girl. Not, like, right now, but at some point. Because the tall girl clearly wanted Krista, and Krista wanted to let it happen.



At some point over the course of the world ripping itself apart, between the twin threats of getting eaten alive by the undead and getting stabbed in the back by no-good scumbags, between the constant fear and the daily waves of hot, choking panic, Krista had sort of resigned herself to never having sex again. More accurately, she spent so much time being scared and hungry and tired that she subconsciously wiped ‘intimacy’ from her hierarchy of needs entirely. But that first day she met Ymir, something just clicked. Sex and the zombie apocalypse were not mutually exclusive.

 

 

After joining Marcel’s crew, though, it was weeks before she and Ymir did in fact sleep together. She hadn’t thought it would take that long, but Ymir was unexpectedly shy, in her own way, and so Krista had to take the lead.

“We’ll sleep here for the night,” Marcel announced after a perfunctory check on the brown split-level. “Three bedrooms, four beds. Couple of couches.”

“Couch,” said Annie.

“I figured me and Reiner could take the room with the two twins,” Marcel went on, giving Bertolt a pointed glance. “And Bert can stretch out by himself on the double in the other room. Ymir and Krista, if you don’t mind sharing the queen in the master? It’s pretty big.”

“We could take the double,” Krista suggested. “Bertolt deserves to let his limbs be free.”

Marcel’s eyebrows shot up. “I don’t know that he could twist himself over an entire queen bed…”

“He definitely can, but,” Reiner said, frowning, “you two really wanna share a double?”

“I’m small,” Krista said, batting her eyelashes. “We’ll fit.”

The bed smelled kind of dusty, but Krista peeled off her cargo pants and slipped right under the covers anyway. Standing in a square patch of moonlight in the dark bedroom, Ymir crossed her arms and glared.

“Hey,” she barked. “You queer, or what?”

“Why are you asking?” Krista said, fluffing her hair out on the pillow.

“You know why,” Ymir said in a low voice.

Krista smiled and patted the mattress invitingly. “I think you know the answer.”

 

 

(“We could have still taken the queen bed,” Ymir said, after.

“This one’s the farthest from the other rooms,” Krista pointed out. “More privacy. And anyway,” she snuggled in so she was flush against Ymir’s side, “I don’t mind. I wanna be close to you.”

“Holy shit,” Ymir sputtered, “you are _so gay_.”)

 

 

The more she learned about Ymir, the more she was convinced that they’d have gotten together even without the impetus of the end of the world.

“You rode a motorcycle?” Krista said, picturing it.

“Yup,” Ymir grinned, “just to pick up chicks.”

“Did it work?”

“Sure, I’m a stud,” Ymir said. “Hey, I’ll jack a bike one of these days. You’ll see. You’ll be all over me.”

“Please, no,” Reiner interjected. “You two are already disgusting.”

“Bite me, Braun,” Ymir said, giving Krista a loud, smacking kiss. “You’re just jealous you don’t have a cute girlfriend.”

The word ‘girlfriend’ itself made it feel like they were still in the before time. Like they could still do normal stuff: go out to the movies and share a tub of popcorn, curl up under a blanket and binge watch Netflix at Krista’s college co-op, walk down the street holding hands, get wasted and make out on the dance floor at a club. For a while, Krista rode the adrenaline high of this fledgling relationship and let herself imagine all of those things.

But as the summer wore to a close, harsh reality edged out her fantasies. They lost Annie, and it felt wrong to be happy when the others were so somber all the time. Then there was the horrible day they lost Marcel, Bertolt wracked with grief, Reiner waving his gun and crying.

“Get the fuck out of my sight,” he had yelled, “don’t let me fucking see you ever again, Ymir, or I swear to fucking God—!”

Ymir, shaken and bloodstained and pale, had gone. And Krista had gone with her.

So it was just the two of them now, and they were too busy staying alive to play girlfriends much anymore. They had no car, no tent, not really anything but each other. It was enough, though; it was a million times better than when Krista had been out on her own.

Eventually they did stumble across a motorcycle, propped on its kickstand on the side of a dusty road. The tank was nearly full; the Hell’s Angel who’d ridden it was nearby, lying in two pieces, undead, groaning and reaching for them feebly as they walked by.

“Poor bastard,” Ymir remarked. “He looks fresh.”

She knelt down and drove her knife through his head, and the corpse lay still.

The bike was a Harley-Davidson, clunky and wide and apparently nothing like the sleek Japanese model Ymir’d owned before. But the key was in the ignition, a ride was a ride. Ymir settled onto the back of the bike, revved the engine, and jerked her head at Krista to hop on the back.

“Mount me,” she said with a grin.

Krista rolled her eyes as she climbed on. But it was exciting — the heat and noise of the rumbling bike underneath her, the way it was already faintly spewing smoke from the exhaust pipe. She had never ridden a motorcycle before, and it felt dangerous, and impossible that a machine with this kind of raw power could be controlled completely. She clung to Ymir with all her strength, pressed tight to her back until their hearts beat in sync.

“Don’t get us killed,” Krista warned.

“There are worse ways to go,” Ymir replied, and the bike shot forward.

 

 

The most awful day of Krista’s life actually started out pretty normal, all things considered. They’d been staying in the abandoned community center of a small town for nearly a week, feasting every day from a miraculous stockpile of baked beans and oatmeal and dried fruit strips. The director’s office had a decent sized couch, and that was where Krista awoke, nestled in the warmth of Ymir’s arms. As the rising sun slowly lit up the room, Krista counted the freckles on Ymir’s sun-browned cheeks and thought drowsily, _Mine_.

“Morning, gorgeous,” Ymir said when she was awake too, and kissed the tip of Krista’s nose. Tried to kiss a trail down her jaw, her neck, and lower, but Krista laughed and pulled back.

“I smell so bad,” she protested.

“I don’t care,” Ymir said.

But Krista was insistent. “You’ll like me better when I’m bathed.”

“I like you just like this,” Ymir mumbled, holding Krista tight. “Just like this.”

But they did eventually go to bathe — down to the river, a five minute ride away, because there was no running water in any of the buildings in town. Krista brought the bottle of laundry detergent she had been saving for just this occasion, and Ymir brought a backpack full of empty gallon-jugs for storing clean water. Their gun, the last one they had any bullets for anyhow, went in the side pouch of the backpack, and then they were off. They found a sunny stretch of riverside, lots of big flat rocks to lay out their clothes to dry, and then stripped down.

“Today is the day I fix this heinous farmer’s tan,” Krista said, looking at her bare arms and the harsh tan line just above her elbow.

Ymir hummed in amusement. “You’ll burn if you try, Snow White.”

Krista probably _was_ going to burn, but it would be worth it. The dry heat of Indian summer had hit with a vengeance, and even after she’d scrubbed every last particle of dirt and dead skin from her body, she stayed out in the coolness of the river for over an hour, floating and swimming and splashing at Ymir, who grinned and splashed back and grabbed her by the waist, spinning them both around until they were dizzy.

They were almost back to playing girlfriends again. It had been weeks since they’d seen any other people, and days since they’d even seen any zombies. They’d stumbled into this strange, empty world all their own, and in it they could do anything; Krista could swim naked in this river for hours, could stretch out on a slippery smooth rock jutting out from the current and sunbathe longer than was really good for her. She could let Ymir pin her down, let Ymir kiss her breathless, let Ymir have her wicked way and she could giggle and gasp and moan into the open air as loud as she wanted to, because they were the only ones left in the entire world.

It was midafternoon when Ymir rolled off of the rock and paddled lazily to shore, either to check on the clothes or to eat, Krista wasn’t sure. She was still too blissed out to do anything, and shade from an overhanging oak tree had begun to creep across the rock, so she wasn’t worried about burning _very_ badly. In fact this was sublimely comfortable, sunny but not too bright, and hot but with the river flowing close enough to dip her hand into if she wanted. Somewhere close by, birds were chirping, and the grass on the banks rustled with life: nature’s white noise machine, and it lulled Krista into a light sleep.

Her eyes flew open when she heard the screaming.

How long she’d been out, she didn’t know — not long, the sun hadn’t moved much — but Ymir’s hoarse voice sent a shot of adrenaline straight to her heart, ripped her from the play-pretend of the before time and right back into the living hell of the walking dead. She scrambled off the rock and started flailing through the current back to shore, and every second felt like a lifetime because Ymir was _still screaming,_ and river water was going up Krista’s nose and in her eyes and blurring her vision but even when her head was completely submerged she could hear the horrible, wordless howling.

Then there was an earsplitting _bang,_ then another, and another. By the time Krista made it to shore, it was over. Four zombies splayed out, Ymir crouched and bloodied in the center, the gun gripped loosely in one hand. She’d had time to pull on pants and a tank top, but the gray tank top was shredded at the midriff where the zombies had clawed at it, and the soft flesh beneath had been torn into as well. Even from afar, Krista could see the glistening red of blood pulsing slowly from Ymir’s belly. There was another bite, shallower but still bad, at the side of her neck, and her hands and forearms looked bloody as well. As Krista waded furiously for the shore, her chest tightening and her eyes going hot with tears, Ymir looked up at her and tried to smile.

“It’s gonna be okay,” she said, “I got ’em.”

 

 

The sun was beginning to set on the riverbank, and the birds were still singing, calling to each other, a sweet twilight melody. Krista had donned her clothes once more over her tender, sunburnt skin, and she’d packed up the rest of what they’d brought — the soap and detergent, the full jugs of water. The gun sat on the sand beside Ymir, who lay stretched out, breathing raggedly. They’d stemmed the bleeding at her neck, but her midsection was so beyond repair Krista couldn’t even look at it. She’d thrown a sweatshirt over it, but that had long since bled through, a deep, almost-black crimson.

“It’s getting dark,” Ymir said raspily, after Krista had tipped a splash of cool water into her mouth. “You need to leave.”

“I’m not gonna leave you,” Krista said, teeth gritted.

“Fuck,” Ymir said. Then she coughed, and her body spasmed in pain. “You promised me. Remember? You fucking promised.”

“I can’t,” Krista said, and she stopped trying to hold it back and cried, “I can’t, I can’t, I _can’t_.”

“I need you to, though,” Ymir said. Then the gun was in her hand somehow and she thrust it, handle-first, at Krista. “We promised, right?”

“I’m so scared to be without you,” Krista whispered. Tears dripped down her nose, soaked into Ymir’s black hair. “Just let me — I’ll take you back to the community center. We’ll figure it out there—”

“No,” Ymir said, and she pushed the gun harder. “I won’t make it. Fuck, Krista, it hurts so _fucking_ bad — I need you to do it here. Now. Please, baby.”

A fresh wave of sobs came over Krista. She let her fingers curl around the cold frame of the gun. Let Ymir slide off the safety, tug at the barrel until it was pointed right at her temple.

“I’m sorry I fucked up,” Ymir said, her chest heaving with the effort. Sweat beaded her forehead, and tears shone in her feverish eyes. “I wanted to protect you forever, but I can’t anymore, and I’m so sorry. I love you so fucking much, Krista, I love you, I’m sorry.”

  _Sorry for what?_ Krista didn’t ask. For getting Marcel killed and getting them exiled in the first place — for never getting around to teaching Krista how to ride the damn motorcycle — or for getting careless, getting bit, for dying? It didn’t matter. Being upset about any of that wasn’t going to unbreak Krista’s heart. There wasn’t room in her to be mad right now — there was only this ugly, wrenching pain. She’d let herself believe in the lie for too long: that she and Ymir had a future, that the honeymoon could last.

She shouldn’t have been so naïve — should have known it would all come crashing down sooner rather than later — she should have been more honest when she had the chance. The pain in her chest flared; below her, Ymir was writhing, twitching in agony.

She leaned down and laid a trembling kiss on Ymir’s forehead, burning hot to the touch, and then sat up and tightened her grip on the gun. She had promised after all.

“I love you, too.”

She closed her eyes, and pulled the trigger.

**Author's Note:**

> I originally just wanted to write a few hundred words about Ymir's death, but it became this instead. And now I wanna go read some happy end yumikuri to cleanse my palate, lol. 
> 
> Anyways hit me up on [tumblr](http://gnatnip.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/gnatnips) any old time!


End file.
